


Starting Now

by Pyjamagurl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-29
Updated: 2012-02-29
Packaged: 2017-10-31 21:59:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyjamagurl/pseuds/Pyjamagurl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Letting go of John is much harder than Sherlock thought it would be, but he can't go back just yet. Things like this take time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Starting Now

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Live Journal, just slowly moving things over here too :) 
> 
> Also, a very big thank you to entangled_now for reading over and handholding! Title comes from an Ingrid Michaelson song that kind of fits in a way.

Letting go of John is the hardest thing Sherlock has had to do. It’s ridiculous, really, how difficult it is, but there it is. Sentiment is an attribute found in the losing side, and Sherlock, at his end of days, is right there along with the very people he had shown disdain for doing exactly the same thing. 

It’s strange how quickly John weaselled his way into Sherlock’s life, into his heart. No one else has ever managed it quite so quickly and thoroughly as John Watson has. It is perhaps a sad thing to admit to in the eyes of others, but Sherlock Holmes hadn’t had friends before. His childhood had been a lonely one, his school years set him apart from others as he realised he was much smarter than the other children and just didn’t care about any of their frivolous interests, nor did he care about fitting in so didn’t bother trying. University had been no better, he annoyed people with his constant observations; his peers saw his deductions as a source of amusement until it started to embarrass them too much

John isn’t the same. Of course John had shown doubt when they had first met, even the second time that they had met, but he was quickly impressed by Sherlock’s brilliance rather than put off by it. It had been nice to have someone actually praise him for his brilliance, but it isn’t just on a superficial level that Sherlock likes John; it isn’t that he craves. It is John’s honesty. John praises him, but he also lets Sherlock know when he’s gone too far—he never thought about that before, people get their feelings hurt over all sorts of things, it’s inconsequential at times, ridiculous—John is his moral compass, his heart, and without him Sherlock feels lost. 

Sherlock hadn’t quite expected the same from John. A part of him had expected John to listen when he told the lie that Moriarty wanted everyone to believe. From his own mouth, shouldn’t John believe it when it came from Sherlock’s mouth? But he hadn’t. John is so determined he knows Sherlock better than that, so sure. And in the end Sherlock thinks John is right. 

***

It had been three months after the fall when Sherlock visited his own grave. Followed the taxi carrying Mrs Hudson and John, kept a good twenty paces behind them, stayed out of the way as the pair walked up to the black marble headstone with his name engraved in gold—Mycroft, unnecessarily expensive, but wholly suited to Sherlock in his brother’s eyes. He doesn’t know what John says—he could have lip-read if the angle had been better but he won’t risk being caught, not yet—but he knows enough to realise it’s something difficult, something he needs to be able to hear. It’s a close call, but no. Not yet. 

***

Sherlock goes back to 221B a week later when Mrs Hudson is out getting groceries. The tenant of the flat downstairs, the assassin, had mysteriously up and left two months prior—Mycroft’s doing again, Sherlock is sure, he’s tying up loose ends and making sure John and Mrs Hudson are safe—and John hasn’t been back here in far too long. 

The flat is empty without John. It’s empty without both of them. It’s a ridiculously sentimental thing for Sherlock to think, but it’s as though the flat needs them, both of them, to have any sort of life in it. 

Nothing much has changed. All his equipment is packed away in boxes—neatly and with great care, he checked—and sitting on the kitchen table waiting. Everything else is the same. The skull sits on the mantelpiece; John and Sherlock’s chairs sit facing each other, anticipating their respective owner’s returns; Sherlock’s violin is propped up against the left hand side of his chair, the bow still lying in the case, Sherlock’s fingers itch to play it—to compel a melancholy tune, of all things—but he can’t, not right now; the skull on the wall still has headphones on; the books piled up are now gathering dust; Irene’s phone is still in the last drawer of Sherlock’s desk; Sherlock’s laptop is sitting on top of John’s desk where he’d discarded it two days before the fall, John hasn’t moved it. John hasn’t moved anything. 

There’s a clatter downstairs, the sound of a key in the lock, and Sherlock jolts in surprise. Mrs Hudson shouldn’t be back yet, he’d calculated. He holds his breath and listens, familiar footsteps on the stairs, the unmistakable clunk of a cane. Sherlock quickly, quietly, dashes across the landing, squishes himself into the cupboard under the stairs before John can turn the corner and see him. He listens. 

John pauses at the top of the stairs, hesitating. Sherlock doesn’t need to see John to know the look of indecision on his face, perhaps the slight tremor of his hand as he reaches out towards the door leading to their lounge. The pause seems to last for a long time, so long that Sherlock wonders if John is chickening out, but then there’s the swing of the door—the shushing sound of the door scraping over the carpet—and John’s slow footsteps. 

Sherlock listens as John does exactly what he had done—there’s the sound of cardboard flipping open as he looks in the boxes on the kitchen table, the creak of the fridge door—it’s empty, completely devoid of anything that might identify the flat’s tenants—the slide of the partition from the kitchen to the living room, the click of John lifting the skull on the mantelpiece, the scuff of the bottom drawer of Sherlock’s desk being opened and shut again. 

There’s the scuff of feet again, closer this time, in the very hallway Sherlock is hiding in. He holds his breath, they are only a foot apart and John doesn’t even know, listens as John pauses in the doorway to Sherlock’s room. That should be just as Sherlock had left it too—bed neatly made; books put away tidily; clothes meticulously folded or hanged as applicable—a veritable contrast to the domesticated comfort of their shared living areas. John makes his way into Sherlock’s room, sits down heavily on the edge of Sherlock’s bed—the slight creak of bedsprings, the whisper of jeans on cotton—and lets out a sigh. Sherlock wonders why this hurts so much.

His heart is thumping hard and fast in his ears, his heart tugging painfully as he thinks of John, of his face as he does all the things Sherlock has just done. He wants nothing more than to open the door and tell John it’s all right. Everything is fine. 

Everything is not fine. He can’t tell John yet. Not until it’s safe. 

***

Sherlock has to leave the country for four months, chasing new leads to India, then Australia, and finally New Zealand. When he gets back to London he’s tired. He wants to see John; it’s a compulsion for him now, drawn back home. He used to scoff at people when they spoke of being homesick, but now he thinks he understands. It isn’t just the home comforts of 221B that are amiss; it’s the man who used to dwell there with him. 

He misses John sniping at him when he said something out of turn, his facial expressions—has he ever met anyone as expressive as John—he misses John pressing tea or coffee or toast on him when he thinks Sherlock is being an idiot for going without fuel for days on end, he misses John’s inane chatter and his smiles, and the comfort of sharing a room and not having to say a word. Sherlock doesn’t think he’s ever missed anyone before, not like this. 

John still isn’t staying at 221B. It doesn’t take much effort to work out where he is staying, John doesn’t have many options now that army housing is out of the question—he takes a cab out to Harry’s flat on the outskirts of London and he stays. It’s a downstairs flat, lounge at the front, mismatched furniture, homey but not in the same way 221B is. From where Sherlock is standing he can just see John, his greying blonde hair looking rumpled and his face tired, the flicker of the television lighting up his world-weary visage. Something twinges in Sherlock’s chest again. Unfamiliar before the fall, familiar since the loss of John. 

It isn’t enough. It isn’t anywhere near enough. But it will do. 

***

Bart’s is dead when Sherlock enters it. The graveyard shift—an ironically fitting name, Sherlock thinks—is quiet, with few people passing through the corridors. No one pays him any attention, but he’s wearing a dark green parka and has one of those silly fluffy trapper hats covering his dark hair. He looks like a student, and students do graveyard shifts on placement sometimes, don’t they? 

Molly is easy to find. Sherlock makes his way down to the morgue, watches Molly through the window for a moment—she seems more relaxed than he’s seen her before, her hair down like she’d worn it that Christmas all that time ago, she looks too young to be cutting open a body with the precision and care that she is—it’s strange how Sherlock never appreciated her before. 

He waits until she has finished the Y-incision before he opens the door. Predictably Molly jumps, gasps, but then goggles at Sherlock like she really hadn’t been expecting him to be alive when she’s one of a select few who knows the truth. Her eyes are fixed above Sherlock’s forehead, her lips pinching to bite back a smile, and then Sherlock remembers the trapper hat. He whips it off his head and tosses it aside. 

‘It’s… it’s good to see you,’ Molly says with a small smile, her eyes scanning over him, she looks very much like she’d like to ask what Sherlock is doing but has thought better of it. 

‘And you,’ Sherlock says, stepping closer to the body on the table—male, late thirties, messy dark blonde hair, clear evidence of past drug use (and recent relapse), scarring possibly from being injured in battle, but also possibly from sports, perhaps one of those extreme ones like skateboarding or BMX. ‘How did he die?’

‘You’ve been gone a while,’ Molly says, ignoring Sherlock’s question. 

‘It was necessary,’ Sherlock says. 

‘Are you back for good?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Why did you come?’

‘I needed…’ Sherlock doesn’t know how to finish. He looks up at Molly, her gaze kind and worried, her face sympathetic. He doesn’t deserve her sympathy. She draws in a breath, in that way that means she’s going to say something whether he wants to hear it or not.

‘Something familiar,’ Molly says quietly. ‘And you can’t go to John.’

‘No.’

‘He misses you.’

‘You’ve seen him?’

‘Mhm,’ Molly nods. ‘He comes by now and then, visits Mike Stamford occasionally. Asks me how I’m getting on.’

‘Lestrade?’

‘I see him more regularly,’ Molly says. ‘Sometimes I think he misses you too.’

‘Misses murders getting solved quickly, probably.’

Molly laughs, the smile lighting her whole face in a way Sherlock hasn’t seen before. Her eyes are watery, filled with emotion. Is this how he feels about John? Is this how he looks when he’s watching John from afar and his heart twinges in that curious way?

‘I miss you too,’ she says. 

‘Thank you, Molly,’ Sherlock says, hoping that Molly realises he is thanking her for everything, not just her quiet, reassuring comfort. She smiles at him, and he thinks she does. 

‘You’re welcome.’

‘I’d best go,’ Sherlock says, he stalks back towards the door. Picks up the hat from the unit at the side and pulls it back over his hair.

‘It was a drug overdose, by the way,’ Molly says, and Sherlock turns to look at her. She nods towards the man on the table with his innards laid out neat and bloodless before her. ‘Morphine. He was taking it after he broke his leg in three places doing a BMX stunt. You knew that though, didn’t you?’

‘I didn’t know,’ Sherlock says, opening the door. He shoots her a smile, a genuine one. ‘I observed.’

***

Sherlock books himself into a hotel room near Harry’s flat when he’s not running around the world making sure Moriarty’s reach is stifled. He deliberately lays himself in John’s path, making sure he can see John at least once a day. He tells himself it’s because he wants to make sure that John is safe, but really it’s to soothe his own rattling nerves. It’s almost as bad as nicotine withdrawal, his withdrawal of John. When he has work he can tell himself he’s fine, when he’s idle he needs John to fill the gap he hadn’t realised had been empty before. 

***

He follows Lestrade for a few days—kidnapping of the three-year-old son and seven year old daughter of well-known actor—the police are frantic. The father is frantic. The mother is crying crocodile tears. It’s plainly obvious she did it (hadn’t married the actor, split was messy, she has hardly any money and the ransom is easily half of what the actor is worth) likely she paid a friend what little money she did have to keep the children out of the way and quiet, and promised a larger sum when she came into her riches. 

Sherlock could tell Lestrade all of this, of course he could, but it’s not time for Lestrade to see him either, he’s only here because watching John got too painful for one day—he wants to shake life back into John and there is only one way to do that, and so he must separate himself. He does the next best thing in the case of Lestrade, he follows the mother for a day, works out where the children are being kept—they are fine, of course, completely oblivious to the terror running through the police and public’s minds—and then leaves an anonymous tip with Scotland Yard. 

The next morning is, predictably, media mayhem. There’s even note of an anonymous source. 

***

Mrs Hudson still dusts and hoovers their flat even though nobody is in it. She doesn’t rent it out either; Sherlock wonders if that is quiet hope that John will come back soon, or an even grander hope that Sherlock isn’t dead, either way the flat is becoming a shrine to John and Sherlock. 

She goes on with daily life as she always has, her life mostly unchanged except for the monthly visit to Sherlock’s headstone with John—he knows for a fact John goes more often, alone—and the fact that the flat is far too quiet. There’s a new family moved into the downstairs flat, a young couple and their infant son, but still it’s quiet without the boys upstairs. 

Sometimes, when he’s bored, Sherlock sneaks upstairs and moves something just to see if Mrs Hudson notices. 

Whatever he moved is always back in its rightful place whenever he goes back. 

 

***

Sherlock ends up traipsing across Europe for two months, when he gets back to London it’s late December, there’s flurries of snow and signs of Christmas everywhere he looks. The first thing he wants to do is go by Harry’s flat and check up on John, but as soon as he steps off the subway there is a sleek black car pulling up at the curb. Sherlock rolls his eyes and gets in without a word. He’s secretly glad for the warmth and security. 

The woman sitting next to him doesn’t look up from her Blackberry, nor does she speak to him for the duration of their journey. They pull up where Sherlock expects them to, and Sherlock makes his way along to the usual room of The Diogenes Club alone. 

Mycroft is sitting in the chair facing the door. Sherlock hasn’t seen his brother for almost two years, but Mycroft hasn’t changed much—put on a few pounds but nothing drastic—he still has that pompous air about him, he still commands whichever room he enters. Mycroft looks at Sherlock with a mixture of relief and concern—a curious expression on Mycroft, Sherlock hasn’t seen that look since his last downward spiral with drugs—and actually gives Sherlock a real smile. 

‘Sit,’ Mycroft says. Sherlock, who has been hovering behind the only other chair in the room, pulls his coat tighter around him and takes his seat. ‘It’s good to see you.’

‘The feeling isn’t entirely mutual.’

Mycroft scoffs and shakes his head, unsurprised by Sherlock’s stubbornness. ‘I take it things are going well?’

‘As well as they can be.’

‘Taking longer than you’d hoped?’ Mycroft asks with a smirk and a quirk of an eyebrow. Their gazes meet, and Sherlock can feel a curl of anger at Mycroft and his ability to read him like a book—Sherlock learned all his tricks from his big brother after all. It shouldn’t surprise him what Mycroft is implying with that smirk. His brother knows that Sherlock’s attachment to John is perhaps his only weak spot. Sherlock can feel his cheeks heat up regardless, when has he ever shown himself to have a weakness in the form of another person? There was Irene Adler once upon a time, but his relationship with Irene paled compared to that with John. 

Mycroft drops his gaze, draws a finger along the lip of a crystal tumbler filled a third of the way with amber liquid that’s sitting on the side table next to him. Ever the one to conjure the image of the mysterious villain. 

‘What is holding you back?’ Mycroft asks.

‘Moran,’ Sherlock says. Mycroft looks up at that, genuine surprise on his face. 

‘Colonel Sebastian Moran?’

‘You’ve heard of him then?’ Sherlock says. ‘His influence extends further than I thought.’

‘He has made himself known through his allegiances,’ Mycroft agrees. ‘He has slipped through our fingers on numerous occasions.’

‘Have you…’ Sherlock starts, quickly realising that this is the first time in many years that he is asking for Mycroft’s help. ‘Have you heard where he is?’  


Mycroft, using all the willpower he can muster Sherlock assumes, lets the gravity of the situation slide. ‘To my knowledge, he was last seen in Kuwait.’

‘Thank you,’ Sherlock says, starting to rise from his chair.

‘Sherlock,’ Mycroft says. Sherlock pauses and looks over at his brother. ‘Please be careful. Moran is not a man to trifle with. This might be one to let slide.’

‘I can’t,’ Sherlock says. Sherlock can’t put John in that kind of danger if Moran figures out Sherlock is still alive. A world where John doesn’t have Sherlock is better than a world where Sherlock doesn’t have John. Mycroft looks at him like he understands and nods.

‘Come back in one piece,’ Mycroft says.

‘I’m sure you’ll have your goons keeping good enough an eye on me to ensure that, don’t you?’ Sherlock says, sweeping out of the room. 

He ignores the black car waiting outside of The Diogenes Club, and walks to Harry’s flat despite the distance. 

 

***

It takes a year. Sherlock follows Moran through the Middle East, Africa and Eastern Europe, until finally he is in Mycroft’s clutches. Sherlock doesn’t ask what will happen to Moran, he knows his brother well enough to know that Moran will be lucky to see the light of day again any time soon. It’s the last of Moriarty’s known contacts, the last of his traceable tendrils into the seedy underbelly of crime, and Sherlock is exhausted. 

Three years. Three years since Sherlock last spoke to John Watson. He remembers their last conversation all too well, emotions on both their parts the most painful they have been through. 

John has moved back into Baker Street sometime in the last year—Mycroft tells him it was April. Sherlock thinks it probably has something to do with Harry. While John’s relationship with his sister is better than it has been for a long time, there is only so much time that John can share with his sister without wanting to strangle her. John needs his space. 

It is heart-warming to see 221B lived in again. The boxes that once covered the kitchen table are gone, papers and John’s breakfast plate and empty tea mug lying there instead where he left them that morning. The skull is still on the mantelpiece, the skull on the wall is still wearing headphones, but Sherlock’s computer is nowhere to be seen, his desk tidier than it was before. Sherlock’s violin has been put away, but his chair is still facing John’s. 

It has been two weeks since Sherlock got back to London. He has done the subtle things; subliminal messages in newspapers; deliberate hints dropped in scattered articles (anonymous sources for the police); even making sure to cross John’s path on his way to work; he’d stopped short of actually texting John, subtle hints were enough. Now is the time though, he isn’t waiting any longer to see if John has figured it out, he is too eager to see him. Three years is too long. 

Sherlock is sitting on his chair—he’d missed it, the leather moulds to his body comfortably as it had all those years ago—when he finally hears footsteps on the stairs. He frowns. John isn’t alone, there’s the clear padding of paws of a four-legged creature. Sherlock’s eyes scan the room; John’s chair, fine white hairs on the blanket and cushion; there's a bright green and white striped knotted chew toy lying on the floor near the fireplace; John has a dog. 

The dog is the first thing Sherlock sees; squat, white and brown, bulldog. It barks, and John gives a gentle tug of the lead. 

‘Alright, cut it out,’ John grumbles, limping across the threshold. His head is bowed, digging empty poo bags from his pocket. The dog is still barking.

To Sherlock it happens in slow motion. John looks up, frowning at the dog before Sherlock catches his eye. John’s face goes slack, he drops the lead and the little green bags, and he blinks.

‘Sherlock…’

Sherlock stands up, crossing the distance between them and crushing John into a hug. He buries his face in John’s neck—he’s never noticed what John smelled like before, but it’s pleasant, the smell of home—and closes his eyes. It takes John a long moment to figure out what to do with his arms, but eventually Sherlock feels John place his hands on Sherlock’s back. Sherlock is half aware of the dog still barking, it paws at Sherlock’s leg, eventually lets out a low grumble and sits at John’s feet. Very suddenly, John is hugging Sherlock back, so tight he’s almost squeezing the air out of him as though trying to convince himself this is real, that Sherlock is actually here. Sherlock finds himself muttering in John’s ear.

‘It’s alright, I’m here… I’m here…’

‘Sherlock… what…’ John breathes against Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock pulls back, lips brushing against John’s ear. John’s face up close is a million emotions at once; surprise, joy, confusion, anger, relief. 

‘I’m sorry,’ Sherlock says, eyes boring into John’s. 

‘I hoped…’ John says, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘I saw articles… saw that stupid coat of yours a few times… convinced myself it was you… I—’

‘I was hoping you had noticed,’ Sherlock smiles. ‘You never cease to amaze me, John,’

‘I never cease to amaze you?’ John asks, eyebrows jumping towards his hairline. 

‘You never gave up on me, even when all the evidence was piled against me,’ Sherlock says. ‘Even when I told you everything was a lie.’

‘I know a real lie, Sherlock,’ John says. ‘Particularly coming from you.’

John slides his hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck, pulling him down until their lips meet. The kiss is messy, desperate, wanting. It’s everything Sherlock has never had, and everything he never knew he wanted. God he has missed John Watson. 

John looks flushed when they break apart, his face still that mixture of anger and happiness all at the same time. He lets go of Sherlock, steps back, picks up his cane from where he’d let it drop to the floor and props it against the door. Sherlock watches in confusion as John flexes his fingers, balls his hand into a fist. He realises a split second before what is about to happen, he doesn’t move. John socks him in the jaw, pain blossoms along the left side of his face and he lets out a grunt of agony. Sherlock opens and closes his mouth, testing his jaw—he’ll have a bruise, nothing more—and then looks up to see John scowling and shaking his hand, the knuckles bright red.

‘You absolute _tosser_ ,’ John says, completely failing at hiding a grin. 

‘Feel better?’ Sherlock asks. 

‘Much,’ John says. ‘Tea?’

‘Yes please,’ Sherlock says, surprised at the breathlessness of his own voice. He clears his throat, only half aware of John disappearing into the kitchen. ‘You got a dog,’ he adds, changing the subject. 

‘Excellent deduction,’ John says dryly, the sound of the kettle boiling in the background. ‘You have no idea how much I have missed those.’

‘I thought you didn’t like when I showed off,’ Sherlock says, sinking down onto his chair. John comes to stand in the doorway of the kitchen, leaning against the sliding door. 

‘I’m sure I could get used to it again,’ John says with a smile. The dog comes to sit at Sherlock’s feet, nudging at Sherlock’s hand until he claps it. ‘I think he likes you.’

‘He?’ Of course it’s a he, Sherlock isn’t blind. 

‘His name is Gladstone,’ John says. 

‘Gladstone?’ Sherlock asks, watching John’s retreating back as he goes to brew the tea. 

‘Well I would hardly call him Cameron, would I?’

‘Of course not,’ Sherlock says, looking down at the squished face of the dog demanding petting. He scratches behind Gladstone’s ears. ‘I suppose Clegg was out of the question too?’ Sherlock doesn’t need to look up to see the derisive look going his way. 

Two minutes later a tray with the teapot and cups and saucers is placed on the table between their chairs and John sits down to pour the tea.

‘So,’ John says. ‘Are you going to tell me?’

‘There’s a lot to tell,’ Sherlock says, taking his cup and saucer from John.

‘I’m not in any hurry,’ John replies. ‘I find it doubtful you are, considering you’ve just turned up after three years.’

‘Where would you like me to start?’ Sherlock asks, meeting John’s gaze. 

‘The beginning is always good.’


End file.
